


Oh My God

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: It began about a month into the demise of their platonic partnership, thirty days into the new, verynon-platonic, incarnation of it.   His “oh my God” tally, that is.





	Oh My God

Scully’s relationship with religion is a peculiar one, fickle but constant. He gave up trying to understand it ages ago. His, he supposes, is equally unclear. They’re a screwed up couple of occasional heathens is what they are.

“Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Right there before “Keep holy the Lord’s day.” That second one’s a no-go right from the beginning though. The government’s generous with its mandated holidays, but if you’ve ever tried asking ol’ Wally Skinner to approve a day off smack dab in the middle of an unfinished case in Podunk, Arkansas (to observe the Sabbath, of course), you’d know you’re fighting a losing battle. 

It’s the Lord’s name one that intrigues him though. Because Scully, good Catholic girl that she is at times, can throw down a “Jesus Christ” or an “Oh my God” with the best of ‘em. Does it feed her inner rebel? Taste illicit on her tongue? It certainly tastes illicit on _his_ tongue, when his mouth is the lucky recipient of such irreverence, when those blasphemous words catch on his upper lip right along with her moist and quickened breaths. Yes. Jesus Christ indeed.

It began about a month into the demise of their platonic partnership, thirty days into the new, very _non_ -platonic, incarnation of it. His “oh my God” tally, that is. Those first few times with her, they were—hell, they were amazing, indescribably amazing. She was just as exquisite as he’d always imagined, vibrant and sensual and able to bring him to his knees, quite literally. But she was also quiet. Murmurs and sighs, restrained little whimpers muffled by the ball of her shoulder or a pillow. Didn’t matter. He loved it—her, sex with her—without bias, regardless of her vocals or lack thereof.

But then, slowly, surely, things began to change. Out started slipping an occasional “oh” or an intermittent “Mulder,” even a rare and desperate “please”. And though he’d told himself it really doesn’t matter (it doesn’t, it _really_ doesn’t), he can’t claim her little outbursts didn’t thrill him, didn’t make his heart race and his dick harden just _a touch_ more urgently.

And then, _then_ , when he finally found that spot (you know the one) about two weeks in, her nipple slipping willy-nilly against his tongue, his arm cock-eyed and twisted as he attempted a new angle, _that_ was when things got interesting. Because that was the first “oh my God.” And ohhh, was it a good one. Startled and reverent, breathless, everything a good “oh my God” should be.

Since then, he’s learned that spot well. He’s finessed it and made friends with it, has nurtured it like a pussy-cat brought in from the cold (yes, he’s aware of the pun). He’s found other spots, too, lots of them, some more finicky than others, but all capable of wrenching a delicious, breathtaking “oh my God” from her throat.

And so began the tally. A secret, just-for-him tally. No need for actual paper or pencil, four hash marks crossed over by a fifth. No, the numbers are ingrained across his frontal lobe, right there next to the taste of her lips one fateful midnight, and the taste of her many other parts another.

A point for each time his sweet little Catholic girl takes the Lord’s name in vain. Oh, he’s going to hell for this one, he’s sure, but he’ll drag Scully right up to those pearly white gates beside him, beg her to get him off the hook (“Please, you’re in good with the big guy, Scully!”), and besides, it’s not like she’s complaining. In fact, she’s doing quite the opposite, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Thirteen is his record. Impressive, or at least to him it is. But then of course, there were bonuses in that round. Extra points for “Jesus” and “Christ” and then the two combined, and _extra_ extra points for the way she gripped the sheets and whispered in awe, “Holy fucking hell, Mulder” as he tongued his way through her folds. Yes, that night was a good one, an amazing one. In fact, he’s pretty sure she yanked a bit of irreverence from his own throat that night as well.

But she’s still holding back, he can tell. Still biting her lip at times, still pressing her gasping, wet mouth to his shoulder, still turning her face to the pillow. He wants her to let go. Wants to hear all that passion she’s got bottled up inside, wants to break that record of thirteen by ten, twenty, even thirty. But mostly, he just wants her to feel good.

He’s feeling lucky tonight. She’s wearing black lace. He knows this because she’s also wearing a sheerer-than-usual white blouse. He’s pretty sure Skinner knows this as well. It amuses him to see his boss flustered to the point of sweating, but mostly it just makes him proud—she’s his now. But anyway, she’s wearing black lace and being flirty and smiley and downright adorable. Yes, he’s definitely feeling lucky tonight. 

He’s got her in his arms and against the door within seconds of entering her apartment, her mouth full of his tongue, her slick and shiny hair clenched between his fingers. She’s surprised, takes a second to respond, but then she moans, arches her pelvis up against him, slips her hand beneath his jacket and around to grip his ass. They’re gasping for breath by the time she breaks free. 

“Jesus, Mulder,” she breathes, heavy-lidded beneath him. He’ll chalk that up as _number one_ , thank you.

“S’what you get, teasing me all day with this outfit,” he responds, pressing his erection into the swell of her tummy.

“You noticed, hmmm?” Scully plays innocent so well, eyebrow raised while she tugs at his tie. 

“I noticed, Skinner noticed, I think even Kimberly noticed,” he retorts. She’s smoothing her hands across his chest now, making him dizzy.

“You wanna know something?” she whispers against his throat. “You’re the only one that matters.” Her fingers slide through his hair as she pulls him back down for a kiss. She’s delicious, an absolute delicacy, so he sucks at her lips for a while, wedging a knee between her legs to lift her slightly higher. The height difference, he’s found, is a tricky thing. Good thing they’re both open to interesting solutions. 

With an arm wedged between her hip and the door, he pulls her closer, grinds her against his thigh until she moans right into his mouth. His hand is snaking beneath her blouse to find that black lace for itself when she wrenches her lips from his. “God, Mulder…You’re…” He runs a thumb over her nipple. “Christ,” she gasps, “Let’s move this to the bedroom, okay?” There go _numbers two and three_ , and they’ve barely even begun.

“No,” he grunts, “No bedroom. Couch.” He’s in full caveman mode as he pulls her across the apartment, presses her into the beige linen cushions of her sofa, covers her body with his and her mouth with his, too. Her tongue plays peek-a-boo while her arms twine like ribbons around his back, while her hips splay wide to accept his already-thrusting pelvis. He doesn’t know what it is tonight, the black lace or the challenge he’s put upon himself. Or maybe it’s just her, maybe it’s just that she’s _Scully_. Regardless, he’s frantic right now for her.

He kisses his way down her chin, her neck, and she arches against the arm of the couch, a faint whine held captive in the back of her throat. No, no that won’t do. His tongue snakes out to lave that spot beneath her ear, the one that at times can make her squirm. She whimpers, and she _does_ squirm, but that’s not what he’s going for. Not this time. With gentle teeth, he scrapes back over the skin, scrapes until she’s panting, then quickly, quickly takes a nip. “Oh God!” she gasps, bucking her hips against his belly, gripping his shirt in her fists. Good girl. _Number four_.

And then she’s tugging at the fabric, yanking up his shirt while he works in the opposite direction— _down_ —unbuttoning her blouse, following behind his fingers with his mouth. There, there it is, that naughty lingerie that’s taunted him all day. He takes it between his teeth and tugs. 

She’s dark eyes, she’s swollen and bitten lips. She holds her breath and watches. With a _snick_ and a flick of his wrist, her breasts fall free, and she twitches in anticipation. His tongue, thank goodness, is a talented one—so many years of practice with pencils and seeds—all in training for a moment like this, when wine-dark bits of flesh pucker themselves up and beg. That’s right, beg. He tilts his head and he blows, caresses those bits with his breath, just to watch her shudder. 

He loves to tease her, loves to watch her eyes slip closed and her lips press tight, loves to witness that slow slide of hers, from tightly-held restraint to utter desperation. It’s beginning now, as he kisses his way towards a nipple, her quickened breaths growing quicker and quicker and quicker. He’s learned how sensitive her nipples can be, sensitive and downright needy; attention to them is often enough to bring her close before he’s even ventured into other territory. 

Her hips are restless beneath his ribs, her fingers fidgety along his spine. He meets her eyes as he reaches the outer edge of her areola, and she thrusts her chest out in encouragement, breathes the word “please”.

He plays dumb though, nudges her pert flesh with his nose while shrugging his shoulders, looks once more into her eyes. There’s a whistle as she sucks a mouthful of air through her teeth, and then _this_ escapes, in the sweetest little whimper: “God, Mulder… please…” There’s _number five_.

He engulfs her nipple immediately—she earned it. “Jesus,” she sighs in relief, while pulling his head more firmly against her breast. And _six_ right there, too, how about that? 

His hand steals across her ribs to find the nipple’s mate, and she wriggles delightfully beneath him. He plays there a while at her breasts, swapping sides when she prods him to, her undulating hips doing quite the job against his throbbing dick. She’s getting there, moans and little whimpers escaping her pressed-together lips, but not a bit of blasphemy in sight. C’mon, we can’t quit at six, can we? Time to bring out the big guns, the sure thing. With just the tip of his tongue, he flicks at one nipple—back and forth, back and forth. With just the knuckles of his hand, he brushes at the other—back and forth, back and forth. Until she’s panting, watching him with half-mast eyes and panting. 

And then, with absolute precision (don’t put it past him to have practiced this move before), he simultaneously nips and pinches, and she bucks, arching her neck as the words “Oh my God!” burst from her throat. “Christ, Mulder,” she whispers, while he soothes her sensitized skin and proudly ticks off _seven_ and _eight_ in his mind.

“C’m’up here,” she murmurs, trying desperately to drag him back up her body, but no, no, he’s far from done, instead working his way further down. She wore a skirt today, his prim and proper girl, and when he reaches the hem, he shoves it back up, hissing when he sees what’s beneath.

“It was a set,” she whispers, pelvis and thighs devastatingly pale against more black lace and other delightfully strappy things.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes, and momentarily wonders whether he needs a tally for himself as well. But instead of beginning the calculations, he thrusts his hands underneath her ass and buries his face into the lacy black depths of her. Jesus fuck indeed. She yelps, but it’s not long before she’s tilting her hips to invite him even closer.

“Mmmm,” he hums directly against the fabric, kneading her sweet little rear. “Wet for me, hmmm, Scully?” She hums back in return, tilting even further.

“How wet?” he asks, nudging aside the panties with his nose. He knows how wet—he can smell it, he can feel it for chrissakes, her glorious slickness smeared across his cheek—but he wants to hear it from _her_.

She whines, thrusting herself toward him instead of answering, naughty girl. He backs away slightly, then asks again. “How. Wet. Scully.” She’s pink and swollen and glistening, and becoming moreso by the second. He tickles a finger across her labia and she jumps. “I want to hear you say it…” He breathes just millimeters from her cunt, knowing she can feel him.

She’s quivering now, her back arched up in order to be as close to him as possible. He reaches up her body to roll a nipple between his fingers, and she whimpers, her fingers fisting against the cushions as she finally gives him what he wants. “God, Mulder, so wet,” she moans, and he dives in, swiping up her slit with his tongue. “Oh my God, yesss,” she sighs, “Soo wettt...” He grinds his dick against the couch. He’ll never gain his fill of her talking that way. And plus, cha-ching! _Numbers nine and ten_! 

Holding aside her panties, he starts licking in full earnest, wholly confident in his abilities to wrench several more irreverencies from her throat before the night is through. She’s a squirmy thing beneath him, hips rising and falling like a piston starting up. She works her knees up over his shoulders and clenches his hair between her fingers while he consumes her in spoonfuls, in entire mouthfuls. She’s whimpering up there, squeezing shut her eyes and tossing her head. He focuses on her clit, rolling it roughly beneath the hardened tip of his tongue until she’s gasping, until she’s shoving the entire 100 pound weight of herself up against his mouth. 

But she’s not talking, dammit. She’s not desperate enough, he decides. He’s feeding her exactly what she wants instead of making her beg for it. Yeah, yeah. Gotta make her beg for it. He gets harder just thinking about it.

He pulls away, and her hips try to follow. “No!” she gasps, scrabbling for a hold on his hair to pull him back in. “God, Mulder, m’so close!” she whimpers. That’s more like it, he thinks. _Number eleven_. 

Taking one of the various black straps (he thinks it belongs to a garter) between his teeth, he growls, “How close?” She’s so restless, writhing around on her pretty beige sofa, eyeing his mouth while her tongue runs back and forth across her lips. 

“Mmmm,” she whines, reaching again for his head, but he pulls away, the elastic strap snapping back into place against her creamy white skin. She jumps and lets out the cutest little yelp. 

He leans back in, smells her, “Christ, you smell so good…,” snakes out his tongue for the tiniest little taste (because he just can’t fucking help himself, dammit), but then smiles triumphantly when she moans. “You’re so close, aren’t you, Scully?” Her hands flutter up to her chest, and she squeezes her breasts, plucks at her own nipples. 

“Unghhh,” she grunts, “Please, Mulder…” No, not good enough. She tries to lift her hips closer, but he holds her down. He paints his tongue along the creases of her thighs, works his way around the wet bits of lace with his mouth. He swears he can see her clit pulsing from this distance.

“You wanna come, don’t you? You want my tongue on your clit so you can come.” His dick is basically painful at this point, still bound tightly in his slacks and grinding against the couch. But it doesn’t matter. Not at all. Know why? 

Because she pinches her nipples and she moans, then finally decides to be that good little girl he knew she could be, gasping in the most unholy way, “God, please… Oh my god, Mulder, please. Want it so bad…” 

He zeroes in with his tongue, traces the numbers _twelve_ and _thirteen_ right against her throbbing little bud, clamps down as she bucks wild and free against him. And then he just keeps on tracing, by God, because there’s more. “Oh Christ, yes, yes… holy… oh my God, Mulder… oh my fucking GOD, so good…” and so on and so on, until he reaches at least _eighteen_ , but he wouldn’t put it past himself to have lost count somewhere along the way.

He laps at her gleefully, until she’s pushing him away with limp, weakened arms, smiling in that shy, satisfied Scully way he’s grown to know and love, and murmuring, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that was amazing.” _Nineteen, twenty, and twenty-one_ , thank you very much. He crawls his way up her still-trembling body, and with hungry lips, sucks down every last bit of impiety still left in her throat.

But before he can even take the time to congratulate himself, she’s rising beneath him. With a mischievous look in her eyes, she struggles to her knees and pushes him back down to the couch, wrestling free his belt and his trousers and finally his aching cock. 

She runs the tip of her tongue along her upper lip and says, “Now, Agent Mulder… Let’s see how easily I can make _you_ beg.” He squeezes his eyes shut just as she’s lowering her mouth.

Twenty-one though. Impressive, if he does say so himself, which he _does_ , several times over the next few days. 

Next time he’s going for thirty. 

First though, maybe he ought to accompany her to mass a few times. It’s really only proper. After all, just look what a little sinner he’s made out of her.


End file.
